Sometimes I Get Scared
by Super Lizard
Summary: Willy Wonka disappears for a few days every now and then Charlie learned first not to ask questions, but anxiety has gotten the best of him. Not slash.
1. Charlie

Author's Note: This fiction is dedicated to Rebecca, who has been more than patient with me and my human contact / anxiety problems, on the anniversary of her unendorsed adoption as my little sister. Thanks, shorty. 

This story will have two chapters, maybe three. But for now, it's two in the morning and I have so little to do tomorrow and so much time. (Ah, you know what I mean.) In chapter two, you will have the view of Willy Wonka, and in chapter three, you may either have denouement or the view of the Oompa-Loompas, whichever I feel like writing.

-------Charlie -------

His steps were slower. That was the first thing Charlie noticed. He would walk slower, and his shoulders would roll forward, bringing his posture down with them. He'd refuse to meet anyone's eyes, Charlie's included, and his smiles and laughs were forced if they existed at all.

When Charlie was young, there were times when Mr. Wonka would withdraw into his private quarters, sometimes for several days. Charlie's mother would make Charlie concentrate on studying during those days; thus, Charlie hated them. When Willy would reappear, Charlie would assault him with a hug and beg him never to go away again, so that he wouldn't have to study. Mr. Wonka would laugh. Charlie thought nothing of it.

Now that he was getting older—fifteen years—Charlie wondered more and more about Mr. Wonka's strange behaviour. Neither of his parents would supply any more information than "maybe he needs a break," or "sometimes people need time to themselves." Charlie began to thoroughly disbelieve this during the summer of his fifteenth year—none of his family took time to themselves in this manner, even accounting for his strangeness, why should Willy Wonka?

Intent on observation, Charlie tailed Mr. Wonka around the property almost constantly for several weeks. The change was gradual, and so slow he would have missed it had he not been watching. He almost thought he was dreaming it.

But there it was. His steps were slower, his posture was less than perfect, and he was beginning to avoid eye-contact with anyone. He stopped attending the Buckett family dinners; Charlie had the distinct feeling that he wasn't dining at all. He stopped playing word games with Charlie during their work together. Soon, his voice almost never echoed in the hallways of his own factory. Charlie could have sworn that even his boss's footsteps had ceased to sound the same.

Charlie was worried. He again broached the subject with his parents, this time more directly.

"Mom, Dad, I think there's something wrong with Mr. Wonka."

His mother and father exchanged glances. His mother continued to scrub the floor; his father settled back to his newspaper. "What makes you say that, darling?" his mother answered cheerfully.

He frowned, and struggled to place his words properly. "I think… I mean, he barely talks anymore, or laughs. He's gotten slower and he seems… I don't know… sad. But not sad. More like scared."

His dad laughed—a strained, fake laugh. "That's ridiculous, Charlie, what would Mr. Wonka possibly have to be afraid of?"

"Of which to be afraid," his mother corrected her husband's grammar reflexively.

"Yes, that's what I said," his father grumbled.

Charlie frowned. "I don't know. But something's not right. Do you think… do you think I should ask him?"

"Leave the man his privacy, Charlie," his father advised sternly. "Don't go poking around in other people's business."

"But dad, we live in his business."

"Don't get smart, bucko," he chuckled. "You know what I mean. If he wants you to know, he'll tell you."

Charlie frowned and accepted this as the end of the discussion with his dad. He continued the subject with his mother, instead. "Mum, if you were worried about me, what would you do? I mean, how would you cheer me up?"

"I'd give you a big hug and make you tell me what had you down," she answered warmly. "But the situation is a little different with Mr. Wonka."

"Why would me trying to cheer Mr. Wonka up be any different than you trying to cheer me up?" he insisted.

She sighed and flicked the mop in his general direction. "Grammar, Charlie, grammar. You just put your first person pronoun 'me' in the subject of the sentence, and you ended both your clauses with prepositions."

Begrudgingly, Charlie amended his speech. "Why would it be any different, you cheering me, and I cheering Mr. Wonka?"

"Very good." She didn't answer the question.

"Mom! Answer the question!"

She set the mop down and studied him for a moment. "Because I'm your mom, Charlie."

His frown deepened. "But Mr. Wonka, he's like family!"

She frowned back, pursing her lips. "I suppose. Look, if it's really bothering you that much, go ahead and ask him. The worst he can do is tell you to mind your own business."

"But dad said—"

"He was being your dad, for lack of a better explanation."

His father spoke up in his own defence. "Honey, it's really not good for you to keep undermining me in front of Charlie."

"Oh, pshaw!" she replied, continuing to mop.

That was that. Charlie had resolved to ask Mr. Wonka what was causing him to be sad. Or scared. Or whatever. He had resolved to do it, but found he hadn't the resolve to do it—one of his mother's grammar lessons about the difference between verbs and nouns came back with a vengeance. Charlie found himself following Mr. Wonka silently from one room to another, as par their daily routine, but couldn't make him say anything. Not until he'd brushed by his employer on accident, only to detect something different. He stopped and turned back to Willy, who stood facing away from him, hunched over some or other gadget that was part of another machine in another place, sent to be repaired.

Slowly, carefully, Charlie reached out and hooked a hand around Willy's right arm, pulling it away from the task at hand. He looked up to see if the man had turned to meet his gaze, but he hadn't—the infuriating brim of a purple hat covered his eyes. He wasn't looking to see what was going on, but he wasn't resisting, either.

Charlie tightened his grip on the arm, noticing that the man was shaking slightly. He grasped Willy's right hand and pulled the sleeve of his purple coat up towards his elbow. Immediately, Charlie tensed in shock. Ghostly pale skin, as expected—but he was far, far too thin, even for a lightly built man.

Willy's jaw worked silently for a moment, trying to form a sentence or a thought, even a word, but failing miserably. Finally, without looking up, he removed his arm from his apprentice's grasp and continued working as if nothing had happened.

Charlie returned to work in stunned silence, making no question. When he returned to his home, he barely spoke to his parents, expressing that he was tired and wished to sleep early—in reality, he needed time to think. With doubled resolve, he swore to himself that he'd ask the next day.

He didn't have that chance. When he reported to the Inventing Room the next morning, there was only an Oompa-Loompa waiting.

"Mr. Wonka has decided to take the day off," the little man told him in the manner customary for days in which Wonka withdrew.

"Is he in his private quarters?" Charlie inquired.

The small man told him nothing, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. "I was advised not to tell anyone of his whereabouts."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Did he say _why?"_

"I was advised not to—"

"Yes, yes, I know," he told the Oompa impatiently. "Thank you for delivering the message."

He bowed deeply and scurried away.

Charlie fidgeted with the top of his right ear, as he subconsciously did when he thought deeply or was worried about something. With a small growl, he marched off into the factory.

A short time later, he found himself at the non-descript door of Willy Wonka's private quarters. Two Oompa-Loompas stood outside like guards; they watched him approach, but stopped him before he tried to go in. "No one may enter, sir."

"I just need to ask him—"

"No one may enter, sir," the guard Oompa insisted.

They looked… _scared._

Charlie knit his eyebrows together anxiously, then reached over their heads and rapped on the door.

He was answered by a fearful, familiar scream.

The Oompa-Loompas rushed to push him away from the door, but Charlie struggled past them.

"Let me go, what's wrong with Mr. Wonka, let me go to him!" Charlie tried the doorknob, found it locked, and pounded harder on the door. As the Oompa-Loompas dragged him back again, he threw himself bodily at the door, answering the screams he heard. "What's wrong, what's happening!"

Finally, they pinned him to the floor and covered his mouth. "Please be quiet, sir, Mr. Wonka is very ill, he cannot be disturbed."

Charlie froze and stared at the door.

Confident that he would be still and quiet, the guards released him.

"Ill?" he asked uncertainly. "Does he… the other times… was he ill, then, too?"

The screaming from within the room continued, scared and sobbing.

One of the Oompa-Loompas winced, looking away. "Mr. Wonka has a frail constitution."

Charlie got to his feet and brushed off imaginary dust. "What's wrong with him? Shall I fetch a doctor?"

The Oompa-Loompas shared a glance. Between them and his parents, Charlie was getting the distinct feeling that everyone knew what was happening except for him. The screaming died off, and there was several seconds of silence.

The door creaked open, and another Oompa motioned at Charlie. "He requested to see you."

The young man crept forward quietly, suddenly more apprehensive than he had ever been in his life.

The little man at the door looked over his shoulder, then back at Charlie. "You must not be afraid. Please do not be loud or make any sudden movements."

Charlie nodded, and the small man let him enter.

Willy Wonka's quarters were set up sensibly, but not how one might expect. Immediately inside the door was another door, which opened onto one great room that was all at once an office, a library, a study, and a bedroom. Charlie skipped over most of this, turning immediately left to gaze at the bed on the far wall.

Mr. Wonka appeared to be asleep; his eyes were closed, his flesh was deathly pale, and his forehead was covered in cold sweat.

"H…how is he?" Charlie asked in a whisper.

The Oompa-Loompa looked down at the floor, seeming as worried as Charlie. "He is… fragile. But he is coherent. Please go speak with him."

Charlie inched over to the bed on the other side of the room, and stood at a polite couple of feet. "Mr. Wonka?"

Willy shivered once in what may have been a full-body spasm, then opened his eyes. He dropped his head to the side and his eyes focused on his apprentice. With a thin smile, he breathed, "Hello, dear boy."

"Mr. Wonka, what's wrong?" Charlie nearly cried, suddenly feeling like he was twelve years old again.

"Shh, shh," Willy hushed calmingly. "Charlie, I… I'm very sick."

"Let me send for a doctor!"

He flinched, but did not look away. "It's not my body that's sick, it… it's my mind."

"Will it go away?" he wondered.

Willy blinked and shuddered again, grimacing. "Of course. It will be gone in a few days."

"But it keeps coming back," he observed quietly. "This is why you disappear sometimes."

He nodded wearily. "Charlie, one day… one day it's not going to go away. I don't know when that will be. But it's why you're here. You'll have to run the factory."

"Not without you!" Charlie objected, moving forward and kneeling beside the bed, clutching the thick blankets. "I won't let you go away."

He smiled almost painfully. "I'll still be here Charlie. I'll be here for you to ask questions and to talk to. But I won't be able to make things work anymore."

"No," Charlie protested again, laying his cheek on the bed and crying.

With some effort, Willy rolled onto his side to face his apprentice. He ran one hand through Charlie's hair in an effort to calm him, but the hand was shaking rather badly and the effort failed.

Charlie reached up and caught the hand, holding onto it like a small child might. "What's wrong with your mind? You're so brilliant. How can anything be wrong with you?"

Willy smiled wanly. "Crazy and brilliant are the same thing, shorty."

He snorted and let his master insult him, protesting only feebly. "The Oompa-Loompas are shorter than me."

"Yeah, but they're a totally different species. You're like widgemadoodle short."

"Shut up," Charlie grinned. "And answer my question."

Wonka flinched and closed his eyes, gripping Charlie's hand. "I… I get scared sometimes. I hear voices yelling at me. I hear my father and mean people and they scream at me and… I get scared. Sometimes I have flashbacks."

"So you're like one of those war veterans or something?"

"Yeah, except I don't flop around on the ground when something makes a loud noise." He thought for a minute, and then added, "And I'm not all old."

Charlie chuckled in spite of himself. "You still hear your dad? Even after we went to talk to him?"

Willy sighed.

"You've got to talk to me," he pressed. "You can't just ignore it, or it'll keep getting worse."

"What do you know?" Willy asked sharply, pulling his hand away and rolling over to face the wall.

Charlie scowled and sat on the side of the bed, grasping Mr. Wonka's shoulder and forcing him onto his back, where he could meet his gaze. _I'm gonna get in so much trouble for this. _ "I know a lot! Who was it that got you a family, anyway?" Willy seemed shocked and thoroughly frightened, but Charlie continued. "This didn't happen for a long time after I moved into the factory, and after you confronted your father, so apparently something worked. Let's fix everything else. Let's make it so this doesn't happen again!" He loosened his grip on Willy's shoulder so that it was less of a confinement and more of a supportive gesture. "Please. I'm… You make me scared." Charlie noticed his own tears had started sometime during his tirade. He flopped down on his side and stared at the side of Mr. Wonka's head. "I don't want you to go away, not anymore, not ever… even if you do have a funny haircut."

Willy turned to look at him, attempting to speak, but failing. Finally, he just made a helpless noise and scowled.

"Who else do you hear, besides your father?" Charlie asked quietly.

"I hear the other kids," he answered quietly. "And I hear the neighbours, and people who were mean to me."

"What do they say?"

"They say what they said when I was little. The neighbours always used to talk about how I never listened to my father and I was such a bad little boy, and they talked about how strange I was. The kids, they'd call me weirdo Willy and poke fun at my braces."

"Hm. Kids are mean," Charlie consoled.

"You're telling me," Willy pouted; the expression should have seemed odd on a full-grown man, but didn't seem foreign to Willy Wonka. He suddenly flinched and grimaced, continuing in a quieter and more unsteady tone. "Th-they would call me names all the time, a-and sometimes, sometimes they would hurt me."

Charlie frowned deeply, realizing the depth of the man's sensitivity to that sort of thing. "Hurt you?"

"They'd beat me up," he clarified, sounding more and more upset. "Sometimes they would try to break my braces, so that my father would be even more angry with me than usual, and he would yell and hi…hi…"

His frown turned dire; he reached over and grasped Willy's arm gently—the man flinched away from even that much contact. "Your father struck you?"

Willy exhaled sharply, clenched his eyes closed and nodded.

Charlie wasn't sure how to react. Mr. Buckett was one of the most non-violent men Charlie had ever met. Even when he was really angry, he didn't even raise his voice. Mrs. Buckett was much the same way; though she sometimes would raise her voice to make a point, Charlie had never feared her. He couldn't imagine his parents purposely causing anyone harm. "I'm sorry…" he tried feebly, but it didn't seem to help. "You're safe now, I promise. You're safe and he can't hurt you anymore. No one can hurt you. None of us will let that happen."

"Then why does it still hurt?" he whimpered, bringing his forearms in front of him defensively. "I'm still scared sometimes, and I don't know why."

Charlie took his hands and held them securely, but not harshly. "Don't be scared. We're here. And we all love you very much. We're your real family."

Willy shivered and opened his eyes, meeting the younger man's gaze uncertainly. "I know, but I… I don't know how to believe it. You and your p—you're pa…"

"Mom and dad?"

"Yeah. You and your mom and your dad and your grandparents, you're so nice to me, and I feel safe when I'm around you all sometimes, then sometimes I get scared again. What if you stop liking me, or if you didn't…" he stopped, not wanting to accuse Charlie of anything but already thinking it.

"What if we didn't like you in the first place?"

Willy nodded timidly. "I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't think like that, it's wrong for me to—"

Charlie shook his head. "Shh, it's okay. You're sick, Willy, it's okay."

"No, it's not," he argued. "It's not okay. I shouldn't accuse any of you of that, you're good people, and I don't have the right to think things like that about you. It's not your problem that—"

"Of course it's our problem!" he cried, moving his grip more securely to Willy's wrists. "Your problem is our problem, you're family! No matter what!"

Willy trembled more severely. "You mean it?"

"Yes," he repeated. "I really mean it. Everyone means it. You're like my big brother, how can I not mean it?"

He nervously smiled, and his voice cracked. "Thanks."

Charlie returned the smile.

"Charlie?" he asked with a quaking voice and eyes beginning to tear. "How do I believe?"

His smile turned tolerant, and he scooped up his friend into a big, friendly hug. "It will probably take awhile. I was lucky, I didn't have to learn to believe that. I was born believing it. I don't know how long it takes to learn, but we'll be here until you've learned it. I promise."

Willy gradually relaxed from the initial jolt of human contact and returned the hug awkwardly. "What if I don't learn?"

Charlie glanced down at the too-thin hand grasping the sleeve of his shirt. "I think you're already learning, Mr. Wonka."

"Willy," he insisted. "If you're family, then my name is Willy."

"I think you're already learning, Willy."


	2. Willy

Author's Note: This chapter is from Mr. Wonka's point of view.

I dedicate it to my pet cat—the only witness to anxiety attacks.

Yes, the imagery is intentional, for those of you old enough to understand it.

-------Willy-------

Willy Wonka felt Fear sneak up on him like a chill mist—it was foreign and unwelcome, but something he was helpless to resist. It invaded his senses, freezing cold and invasive. It snuck up behind him and put its hands on him as if his frock coat and thick sweater never existed. It moved chills down his spine, slid around his sides to his belly, and traced his flesh slowly up to his neck, drawing him closer like a lover or a rapist. He felt Fear breathe at his ear and whisper things he'd long wanted to forget.

_Weird… weirdo Willy Wonka…_

His steps faltered as he moved along his daily routine, trying to ignore it. It was getting so much more difficult, now that he had humans in his factory again. The chill spells and the fear were catching him easier. Even though the factory was kept at a balmy eighty-five degrees, he layered himself with clothes and never even broke a sweat. Something subconsciously led him to wear a shirt, vest, sweater, and frock coat, even in the warm. Even so, he would find himself shivering. In attempts to warm himself, he would stand closer to the machines, but the attempt was futile. The chill wasn't from the outside; it was buried inside of him.

He knew Charlie was growing more and more curious as he aged. It was a quality he encouraged in all instances except when it involved asking questions about Willy Wonka, rather than from him. There were some things he was unwilling to give, and the information on what gripped him so securely was one of them.

Maybe that was why he allowed the fear to creep up on him. When the Buckett family first moved into the factory, the anxiety attacks nearly disappeared. He didn't hear any voices but the real ones, and he wasn't afraid anymore. He even ventured so far as to go without his gloves. But now it was coming back. The first couple of times he felt it begin, he complacently let it happen—the security and familiarity of the fear were powerful. He could handle it by withdrawing to his personal quarters for a day, two at the most, while the voices were the loudest and that icy fear had its way with him.

He began to realize he had allowed the anxiety too much power over him. He was getting weaker; it took longer and longer to have its fill of him. It was interrupting his work and his time with his new apprentice. It was controlling him.

In response, he withdrew from things that triggered his anxiety; he stopped putting himself in the presence of other humans by not attending dinner at the Buckett house. He stopped pressing himself to communicate as much; he only spoke as often as absolutely necessary. He never, _ever _went outside, or up to the windows on the top floors. He consciously knew that the sunlight would most likely help to improve his mood; however, every time he made a point to go up to the windows or towards the doors, Fear would wrap its cold hands around his insides and pull him back. Instead, he found himself huddled in corners or standing stalk still and staring.

In the summer of Charlie's third year of apprenticeship, Willy found himself withdrawing slowly. His steps slowed, his thoughts clouded, and his posture suffered. He spoke less and less; every time he attempted to speak, Fear would bite down on his throat. He fought the urge to scream, to instead form sentences. His smiles became forced, and he never laughed in case he cried.

He knew Charlie was getting curious or suspicious—maybe a little of both. It was the last thing he needed; his apprentice was by no means responsible for these anxiety attacks. Willy forced himself to speak with Charlie, and he forced smiles to encourage the boy. Whenever Charlie breached the rules of Wonkadom and hugged him or grabbed his coat sleeve, he would swallow back the cry of terror that tried to crawl out of his throat, and instead smiled. But it was getting considerably harder.

When Charlie and the Oompa-Loompas weren't around, Willy was facing off with his fear directly. He would sit in his private quarters, unable to sleep, shaking violently. He felt Fear approach him, but instead of pushing It away, he took It into himself. Overjoyed at the access, It made a nest in the pit of his stomach and spent every bit of time making him shiver or throw up. It wrapped itself around his spine, around his lungs, around his heart. It whispered things right into his brain.

_You're no son of mine, William._

_You're so weird, go away! Weirdo Willy. What's wrong with you? _

_Are you stupid or something? Why are you crying, you little stupid weakling?_

Willy knew it was easier to hold Fear down, rather than fighting It while It was still outside. He felt like he was going to cave in on the empty spot as It ate out his insides.

Charlie was tailing him around the factory. Willy knew this; he was afraid that the boy was going to find out. He knew Charlie would be asking questions soon, but he didn't know if he could answer them. Instead, he just trucked through their daily routine as if nothing were wrong. He might have gotten away with it, too, if Charlie hadn't brushed by him one afternoon in the Invention room.

Willy froze at the contact, knowing that Charlie had stopped, too. Kicking himself mentally, Willy continued to work as if nothing had happened.

Charlie turned back to him and slowly pulled Willy's right arm away from what he was doing.

Willy shut his eyes, working hard to control his breathing and not scream. His knees felt as if they would give out. He felt Fear laugh inside of him, sending out jolts of cold to every nerve in his body. With an amazing show of willpower, he controlled his reaction and held it down to a slight shaking. Unable to do anything else, he stood stalk still.

_Weirdo Willy. You'll never be normal. Now he'll see how weird you really are. He's going to hate you, Willy._

_Nu-uh. He's f… family. He said he's family._

_He doesn't really know you though, does he? When he finds out what you are, he's going to laugh at you. All of them will laugh at you. You're so scared, so weak. You're pathetic._

Charlie grasped his hand and pulled the sleeve of his coat up to his elbow.

_He's already figuring it out. You're so weak, you won't even eat like a normal person. You can't do anything, can you. You're a weirdo, and a freak._

Charlie stared up at him expectantly.

Willy squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to form a response; he wanted to apologize, he wanted to hid, he wanted to make some sort of a witty pun and pretend everything was okay. _I…I'm sorry Charlie. I'm not what you expected. I'm so sorry._

Unable to do anything else without screaming or weeping, Willy removed his arm from Charlie's grasp and returned to work, eyes barely focusing on the trinket in disrepair.

Charlie went back to work silently.

_You know what he's thinking, don't you._

_I'm so stupid. I'm so weak._

_That's right. You are nothing. He hates you, Willy, can't you smell the hate? Can't you feel it?_

Willy Wonka whimpered so quietly he was sure no one had heard him. _Wait until he's gone. Please, please, just wait until he goes home._

As soon as Charlie left work for the evening, Fear kicked Willy's feet out from under him and slammed him into a wall, gnawing at his insides and laughing, laughing, laughing. Willy curled up into a little ball on the floor, shaking from fright and chills. His whimpers turned into a whine, which turned into a cry, which turned into screams. He screamed and screamed until he could no longer breathe, hugging himself and feeling every blow that had ever been dealt to him.

Kicks to his sides and stomach and back, punches raining from every direction, and the whippings his father gave him when he was caught exploring candy or when he came home with broken braces. The voices screamed in his head, and he screamed louder to drown them out. He brought his hands over his ears and raked his fingertips down the sides of his face—had he not been wearing his gloves, he might have torn his skin.

He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, even when tiny hands grasped his arms and legs. He felt himself moved onto a piece of canvass and carried, but he didn't dare look. He didn't dare stop screaming, lest the voices win. He screamed until his throat was raw, and then he screamed some more. Finally, as he was hoisted onto his bed by his crew, his voice gave out and he could only cry as voices overtook him.

For the first time in a long time, Willy Wonka was uncertain whether he would be able to win. Fear invaded him, touching every inch of him in the most unwelcome ways. It took him helpless, broke him and left him weak, then returned for more.

_He's not old enough to run the factory yet,_ he argued with his mind. _I can't leave Charlie yet._

_Who cares? _It whispered silkily. _And who said you have a choice? It takes longer and longer every time, Willy. I'm winning. Your mind takes longer and longer to shut down. Do you remember the last time you didn't have a choice, and you had to stay awake—_

_No! _ Tears streamed down his face, and he shivered in spite of the fluffy blankets.

_You knew exactly what was happening, and you know why it happened. Your father probably knew what would happen before he took you to there, before that man—_

_No. _ He protested, mentally losing.

_You remember everything. You remember when that man hit you, then put his hands on you. You remember, don't you?_

Willy whimpered and waited to lose consciousness, knowing from experience that it was the only way out.

A short knock sounded at the door.

_It's him, _It whispered.

Willy screamed anew, cried anew, and struggled anew. Memories and voices flooded into his head.

"Let me go, what's wrong with Mr. Wonka, let me go to him!"

He kept screaming. _Not Charlie's voice, not his. You can't ruin his voice._

"What's wrong, what's happening?"

He vaguely registered that the voice wasn't in his head, and wasn't his. He kept screaming for awhile more, just until he couldn't hear it anymore. _I won't let you ruin Charlie's voice. I won't listen to you._

Willy Wonka lost consciousness. Moments later, it was regained—the voices had dulled to a murmur, and he noticed the odd silence in the room. He had stopped screaming. He was covered in a cold sweat, as one typically is after breaking a high fever. Unable to rally the strength to get up and move, he allowed his head to flop over to the side, and he caught the eyes of the nearest Oompa-Loompa watching over him. "Was that Charlie at the door--?" he asked anxiously.

The Oompa nodded.

Willy closed his eyes and turned his face back up to the ceiling. _He's going to find out sooner or later. He already heard me screaming._ "Let him in."

The Oompa looked surprised, but bowed and gestured to the small man at the door. The door creaked open. The door guard exchanged a few words with Charlie, then allowed him in.

Charlie peered around for a moment, then whispered to the door guard. "How is he?"

_Scared out of my socks, Charlie,_ Willy thought to himself.

He could hear the shuffle of feet, then a nervous address. "Mr. Wonka?"

_Go ahead, freak. Tell him what's wrong with you._ Fear danced from his kneecaps to the nape of his neck. He shivered almost violently, but suppressed the urge to continue. Instead, he turned to look at Charlie. "Hello, dear boy."

"Mr. Wonka, what's wrong?"

He winced. Charlie sounded as scared as Willy felt. "Shh," he told the boy. "Charlie, I… I'm very sick.

"Let me send for a doctor!" his apprentice begged.

Willy flinched—there was no escaping this one. "It's not my body that's sick, it—" _You're broken in your brain, you freak, _a tiny voice whispered. He ignored it. "It's my mind."

"Will it go away?"

He blinked and shuddered again, still able to smell Fear like the last hints of an encounter. "Of course," he assured Charlie. "It will be gone in a few days."

"But it keeps coming back," he observed quietly. "This is why you disappear sometimes.

He nodded wearily, then took a deep breath and prepared himself for the difficult issue. "Charlie, one day… one day it's not going to go away. I don't know when that will be. But it's why you're here. You'll have to run the factory."

"Not without you!" Charlie protested, kneeling beside the bed and wrapping his hands around the fabric of the blankets. "I won't let you go away."

Willy forced a smile. "I'll still be here, Charlie. I'll be here for you to ask questions and to talk to. But I won't be able to make things work anymore." He heard Charlie mumble something and begin to weep. He forced himself onto his side and attempted to comfort his young apprentice. _The world is too cruel. Even my world is too cruel. Why can't it be easier, for Charlie at least?_ He watched as Charlie took his hand and held onto it.

"What's wrong with your mind? You're so brilliant. How can anything be wrong with you?"

_Funny how often madness and brilliance coincide, _one of his voices told him. _Too bad he only thinks you're brilliant. _

He tried to ignore it, but his smile cracked; the corners of his mouth pulled down despite his conscious effort. "Crazy and brilliant are the same things," he told him. After a moment he added, "Shorty."

Charlie barely put up a fight. "The Oompa-Loompas are shorter than me."

Willy found his smile lighten as the subject changed. "Yeah, but they're a totally different species. You're like widgemadoodle short." He knew there was no such thing as a widgemadoodle, but Charlie didn't. And he really didn't want to return to the previous subject.

Charlie grinned. "Shut up and answer my question."

_No,_ his mind whined at him. He closed his eyes and gripped Charlie's hand instinctively, letting himself return. "I… I get scared sometimes. I hear voices yelling at me. I hear my father and mean people and they scream at me and…" _and they gave you what you deserved, you—_"I get scared," he interrupted the voice. "Sometimes I have flashbacks."

He tipped his head to the side and raised one eyebrow curiously. "So you're like one of those war veterans or something?"

_Make it sound better than it is, kid. That's right. _"Yeah, except I don't flop around on the ground when something makes a loud noise." _Add to it._ "And I'm not all old." He felt the movement of Charlie giggling through the blanket.

"You still hear your dad? Even after we went to talk to him?"

_No, _his mind whined at him. _Don't talk to him anymore. It's scary. He's like them. _He sighed.

"You've got to talk to me," Charlie insisted. "You can't just ignore it, or it'll keep getting worse."

Willy felt a wave of tension travel up his spine and through his neck. He opted for anger rather than face fear again. "What do you know?" he demanded sharply, releasing Charlie's hand and rolling over so he didn't have to meet his eyes.

The mattress dipped where the boy had sat, sliding the man towards him slightly.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then he was turned and looking up at his apprentice. The hand sent little shivers of terror through his bones; he had to bite back his fear.

"I know a lot!" an angry voice told him off. "Who was it that got you a family anyway? This didn't happen for a long time after I moved into the factory, and after you confronted your father, so apparently _something _worked."

Willy brought his shaking back under control and focused his eyes and ears on Charlie.

"Let's fix everything else. Let's make it so this doesn't happen again! Please. I'm… you make me scared." He was crying. Emotionally drained, he flopped sideways and stared at the side of his mentor's head. "I don't want you to go away, not anymore, not ever. Even if you _do _have a funny haircut."

After a shocked moment, Willy turned to him and tried to say something. Anything. _Charlie, don't be scared. You can't help me. It's going to happen anyway. If there's being scared to be done, let me do it. I already know how. You shouldn't ever have to be scared._ But none of the words would sound. At last, he growled and whined at the same time, then scowled.

Charlie gave him a challenging look.

_Fine. Let's go. _

"Who else do you hear, besides your father?" he asked softly.

"I hear the other kids," he answered in the same tone. "And I hear the neighbours, and people who were mean to me."

"What do they say?"

_Quiet little freak, aren't you?_

_I guess I am._

_Nice headgear, Weirdo._

_Weirdo Willy Wonka, Freako Frilly Fronka…_

_That doesn't even make any sense._

_Your daddy's creepy. You must be creepy too._

_Candy is a waste of time. You should pick a more useful pursuit for what little brains you have._

_Didn't I tell you never to bring that garbage into my presence ever again?_

Slap.

Willy's eyes went dark. "They say what they said when I was little. The neighbours always used to talk about how I never listened to my father and I was such a bad little boy, and they talked about how strange I was. The kids, they'd call me weirdo Willy and poke fun at my braces." _Among other things._

"Kids are mean," Charlie told him knowingly.

"You're telling _me," _ he huffed, pouting. _You're such a runt. You know what happens to runts, right?_

Fist.

_That hardware around your skull doesn't let anything through, does it? Let's see._

Foot.

_I won't let you go. Your father brought you here for a reason._

Willy swallowed back a scream, but it affected his voice anyway. "Th-they would call me names all the time, a-and sometimes, sometimes they would hurt me."

Charlie frowned at him. "Hurt you?"

"They beat me up," he repeated, feeling Fear beginning to creep up from the pit of his stomach again. "Sometimes they would try to break my braces, so that my father would be even more angry than usual, and he would yell and hi… hi…" _You can't talk about that, or I'll make you scream about it. Do you want to scream about it? I can make you scream._

Charlie's frown deepened. He grasped Willy's arm.

Willy yanked his arm away, smothering a pathetic sound.

"Your father struck you?" he sounded shocked and incredulous.

_You must have deserved it, though, you freak. _Willy let out all the air he had in his lungs to make sure he couldn't scream his answer. With eyes tightly closed, he nodded.

"I'm sorry…" a tiny, startled voice told him, but it didn't seem to help. "You're safe now, I promise. You're safe and he can't hurt you anymore. No one can hurt you. None of us will let that happen."

"Then why does it still hurt?" He couldn't suppress the urge to put at least his forearms between him and the rest of the world, maybe to ward off the blows he could see in his mind. But that was ridiculous, Charlie wouldn't strike him. There was no reason to be afraid. _But you still are, aren't you? I'm still here. Gnawing away._ "I'm still scared sometimes, and I don't know why," Willy admitted. A warm hand closed around each of his and held them securely.

"Don't be scared," Charlie's voice reassured. "We're here. And we all love you very much. We're your real family."

He shivered, feeling Fear oozing along his ribs and nipping at the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end. _Why would any of _that _be true? _ He forced himself to meet Charlie's gaze. "I know, but I… I don't know how to believe it. You and your p—you're pa…"

"Mom and dad?"

"Yeah. You and your mom and your dad and your grandparents, you're so nice to me, and I feel safe when I'm around you all sometimes, then sometimes I get scared again. What if you stop liking me, or if you didn't…" _Stop. You don't have the right to accuse him of that. The rest of the world, maybe, but not Charlie._

"What if we didn't like you in the first place?"

Slap. _He knows already. Why did you let him know?_

Willy nodded, frightened. "I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't think like that, it's wrong for me to—"

Charlie shook his head quickly. "Shh, it's okay. You're sick, Willy, it's okay."

_It's okay, because you're broken. You're not expected to work. _

"No, it's not," Wonka argued, voice steadier and stronger. "It's not okay. I shouldn't accuse any of you of that, you're good people, and I don't have the right to think things like that about you. It's not your problem that—"

"Of course it's our problem!" Charlie moved his hold to Willy's wrists. "Your problem is our problem, you're family! No matter what!"

_F…family? _He shook like a leaf. "You mean it?"

"Yes," he assured. "I really mean it. Everyone means it. You're like my big brother, how can I not mean it?"

Willy smiled a fragile smile. "Th—thanks." _Big brother. Really…?_

Charlie returned the smile.

_Hah, I was just messing with you, you're still a freak, _Fear laughed, digging Its nails into his flesh. _He's going to wait until you die and take your factory, that's what he's here for. He's not here to be family or some dumb nonsense like that. He's got his own family, why would he possibly need you?_

Willy shook anew, eyes stinging. "How do I believe…?"

Charlie's eyes told of a mild impatience. He reached over and grabbed up his friend, embracing him tightly and unexpectedly. Charlie noticed how every muscle in the man's body tensed, as if he were going to attempt to get away. "It will probably take awhile," he sighed. He thought on his own family. "I was lucky. I didn't have to learn to believe that. I was born believing it. I don't know how long it takes to learn, but we'll be here until you've learned it." He gave Willy and extra squeeze. "I promise."

Some warm feeling surrounded him. _You're losing, _he observed of his own fear. A strange sense of triumph welled up right in the coldest place of his heart. _You're losing. Now _you're_ scared!_

Willy relaxed from the surprise of the hug, and returned it, unused to the motion. "What if I don't learn?"

"I think you're already learning, Mr. Wonka."

He noticed that he was holding Charlie's sleeve. He smiled, a genuine smile."Willy. If you're family, then my name is Willy."

Charlie rested his cheekbone on Willy's head. "I think you're already learning, Willy."

_In your face, _he laughed at Fear as it slithered away from him, momentarily banished. _Me and my friends are gonna totally beat you next time you come around here! Charlie and I are gonna open up a can of triple-layered chocolate-swirled whoop ass on your sorry self!_


	3. Safe?

Author's Note: This chapter dedicated to the survivors of Lestor Roloff's 'homes for wayward youth.' Evangelicals may still praise him, but there is a reason the government jailed him twice—and remember, Hitler used to be a hero to Protestants everywhere, until history told people otherwise.

This chapter became far longer than I originally though it would be, and thus I am going to continue it into a chapter four.

ElementalBurn—Thank you for your interest in the morbid and macabre. This chapter should suit you nicely.

Iffy—Thank you for not signing in. That has made you all the more impossible to address directly. I find it amusing that you think my grammar needs tweaking, when you wrote "I find the MLA Handbook a source of good reading material to most in the library maybe you should considor picking up a copy." First of all, it's consider. Second, this sentence would more logically be—and by MLA standards, mind—'I find the MLA Handbook a source of good reading. It is in most libraries. Maybe you should consider picking up a copy.' I own every MLA handbook released in the last decade or so, and make a frequent habit of reading them. You, obviously, do not. When you have something more substantial, please address me directly. My AIM name is TotusVelNusquam.

IDOL HANDS, I agree. I probably didn't need to rewrite the entire chapter. I wanted to have a chance at the extended rapist metaphor, though, because it's creepy.

Everyone else, thank you very much. Valerie, Lietta, Countess, I didn't mean to make you cry. Oo Sorry.

I have a habit of reviewing at least one story for every review I receive—if you log in to review, that makes it easy for me to trace your review to your user name, and your user name to your stories. So if you log in, you get reviews. 

---------Chapter Three: Third Person Omniscient-------

Willy didn't have any panic attacks or misgivings or even a slight chill for months after the amateur therapy session. He didn't smell metallic fear on himself or suffer nightmares. He didn't shy away when Charlie hugged him, and most of all, he attended dinner regularly with the Buckett family. He was as happy as he had been before the fiasco with the tickets and the sudden invasion-by-invitation of his factory. He began to hope it would last forever. As with all things, this came to an end. The end was abrupt and his reaction to it completely unexpected.

Charlie Buckett's family was old-fashioned, and as old-fashioned families are like to do, they still believed in corporal punishment. In spite of this, Charlie was a perfectly well-adjusted young man with just enough of his head attached to his shoulders and just enough of it in the clouds. He held no grudges against his father for occasionally taking the belt to his backside, as in most cases he understood why his father had done it and what he was supposed to learn.

Willy sent Charlie home early one evening, hoping to have a little solitary time with a new invention. Charlie, as fifteen-year-old boys are like to do, snuck away to amuse himself until dinner time.

They met again outside the Buckett house amidst candy grass. Willy wandered up to find Charlie shaking out his jacket. He crinkled his eyebrows in a strange manner, then leaned in close to Charlie in a conspirator's manner. "Psst. What are you doing?"

Charlie whispered in reply, "Trying to get the smell out of my jacket."

"What smell?" Before Charlie could stop him, Willy leaned forward another inch and sniffed the jacket in question. His face scrunched up distastefully and he gave a fake cough to express his disgust. "Ugh. What is that?"

"Cigarette smoke. Don't tell mom, okay?"

Willy frowned at him disapprovingly. "Those are bad for you. Where did you get cigarettes anyway? You're not old enough to buy them yet."

"Shh!" Charlie hushed him. "It was just one. I got it from Sam. You know, Sam from school?"

He didn't know, but it didn't matter.

"Just don't tell mom, okay? Please?"

Willy's frown deepened.

"Please? She'll ground me, and I won't be able to do anything but study and go to school for weeks! No more candy-making."

He sighed and nodded gravely. "Okay. But no more cigarettes for you, they smell icky."

Charlie rolled his eyes; he opened the door and stepped inside, not even flinching as the door slammed into the wall. "Hello Bucketts."

"Hello, Charlie!" a chorus of familiar voices greeted.

He quickly moved toward the ladder leading to his loft as Willy moved to help set the table.

Mrs. Buckett sniffed the air suspiciously. "Is something burning?"

"Check the bird," Mr. Buckett suggested.

Mrs. Buckett smacked him with a pot-holder. "It's not my cooking! It smells like a different kind of smoke."

Charlie shot a desperate glance to Willy, who thought up a response quickly. "Oh, um, Charlie and I were working on some Extra-Flavoured Exploding—"

"Charlie, have you been smoking?" Mrs. Buckett demanded, ignoring Willy as if he were her own child.

The young man on the ladder winced and stepped back down to ground-level, eyes on the ground.

She raised an eyebrow expectantly and tapped a large wooden spoon against one hand. "What have your father and I been telling you?"

"Cigarettes are bad for me. They'll make my lungs turn black and fall out or something equally heinous."

"Charlie, I'm very disappointed in you," Mr. Buckett spoke harshly. "Not only did _we_ forbid you from smoking, but the _law_ forbids you from smoking, too. What you've done is illegal, son."

Willy set the last plate on the table and melted into the shadows near the door, feeling Fear bite harshly into his neck and claim him all at once, unexpected, forcibly.

Charlie was silent.

"How many times have we told you, Charlie?" Mr. Buckett asked quietly, removing his belt and looping it over once.

"Twice," he said, resolving not to whimper.

"I'm sorry I have to do this, Charlie. It will hurt me as much as it hurts you." He drew his hand back to strike Charlie on the backside with the belt.

A moment later, Mr. Buckett was on the floor with large angry welt forming on the side of his face, his cheekbone and jaw aching from his chin to his ear. Mrs. Buckett was standing back, eyes enormous with shock. The grandparents stared, dumbfounded. The door thumped against the wall of the house; Charlie and Willy were gone.

Charlie had squished his eyes shut in anticipation of the blow. He heard a crack, but when he had managed to open his eyes, he was outside in the Chocolate Room, in a fireman's carry. His mentor had him in a strong grasp, running as if the fires of hell were behind him.

Wonka didn't stop running until they reached the glass elevator, where he slammed a random button and collapsed onto the floor in one motion, Charlie still firmly within his embrace.

From where Charlie sat, the only things visible to him were the elevator and the top of Willy Wonka's head. His top hat was left behind somewhere in the rush, momentarily forgotten. He moved a little, still nearly rigid from shock, but found that Willy's arms were stronger than their scrawniness would lead one to believe. Willy was shaking spasmodically. It took Charlie a moment to realize that his mentor was mumbling, though he couldn't be sure to whom.

"I'll never let them hurt you, never ever. No one can hurt you. Not while I'm here. I swear, Charlie. You'll always be safe here. You'll always be safe in the factory. It's safe here."

Tentatively, with the hand that wasn't scrunched up between him and his captor, he reached up and patted Willy on the shoulder. "Of course I will, of course. What's wrong?"

The elevator lurched in an unexpected direction. Charlie jostled sideways, his head smacking against Willy's bony shoulder. Willy's head snapped back against the elevator wall, but he didn't seem to notice.

Charlie finally got a good look at his friend's face, and what he saw scared him. The unusual eyes that had always seemed so mysterious, with just a little hint of insanity, seemed focused on something else entirely. Charlie wasn't sure that Wonka knew he was there anymore.

"Safe, it's safe here, isn't it? It's safe in the factory. He can't get us anymore." Willy's voice grew out of a whisper and into a shrill plead.

"Yes, yes, it's safe here," he told him. He pulled Willy back into an embrace, as much to shield him from any more poundings by the elevator as to shield himself from those awful eyes. "Don't be scared. Don't worry. You're safe."

Willy didn't return the embrace, not registering anything but fear and flashback. His mind was drowning; there was just too much for him to handle. Instead, he shut down, and became merely a huddled mass on the floor of the elevator, shaking and mumbling incoherently.

Charlie patted Willy on the back, shushing him in a manner that hardly seemed sufficient. "Shh, shh, it's okay. You're safe. No one can get you. No one is going to hurt you. Shh."

The elevator bumped to a stop at the room where the cotton-candy sheep were kept between shearing. Charlie frowned, then reached over and hit the button labelled 'Home.' The elevator bumped and rattled off again, its agitated manner reflecting the distress of its rider.

Willy's hands wrapped tightly around the front of Charlie's shirt, as if he were hanging on for dear life and at the same time, physically putting himself between Charlie and what ever he imagined would do them harm.

"Shh," Charlie continued, patting the back of the funny brown haircut and thinking over what to do.

The elevator jostled itself into place in front of the grey door that marked the private quarters of Willy Wonka. The doors slid open with a faint _ding_, just as the Oompa-Loompas lead a familiar couple of people through the halls—Charlie's parents.

_He can't see Dad, _Charlie thought frantically. _It may just kill him. _ He wasn't sure if by 'him' he meant Wonka or his dad. He moved to put himself between the two, and waved frantically for his father to go away.

The Bucketts ignored him, stopping right in front of the elevator and regarding the scene warily. "Charlie, come away from him," Mr Buckett ordered firmly, trying to keep his own fear out of his voice and posture.

Charlie was about to object when Willy's frantically shout sounded first.

"No! You can't hurt him. I won't let you."

Mr. Buckett stayed quiet for a moment, realizing that Wonka was off his rocker in a much more profound way than he initially thought. Arguing with him about a parent's right to take a belt to his child would not be productive. "Okay," he allowed uneasily. "Okay, Charlie can stay where he is. But _you _come away from _him._"

Willy made no reply, but his eyes opened and he looked up, seeing a scene entirely different than they. He shuddered and pulled Charlie to his side. "If… If I go with you, you won't hurt Charlie."

Mr. Buckett showed his hands open and palm-up in a sign of agreement. "I won't hurt Charlie. Come here."

Shaky and delirious with fear, Willy unfolded himself and stood, releasing Charlie and creeping forward, out of the elevator, to stand in front of Mr. Buckett. "S-s-sir."

Mr. Buckett wasn't terribly sure of what to do now, but he was glad that he'd gotten a crazy man away from his son. He glanced over at Mrs. Buckett helplessly.

Mrs. Buckett took a turn to try and calm him. "Willy," she started, reaching out a hand to touch his arm. When he flinched away, she wrinkled her eyebrows and drew her hand back. "Willy, do you know who we are?"

Willy closed his eyes and stood away, head bowed. "I know him," he answered in a voice altogether inanimate and too formal. "I don't believe we've met, ma'am."

"My name is Mrs. Judy Buckett," she told him gently.

"Hello, Mrs. Buckett," he answered mechanically. "Are you here to take Charlie home?"

"Y-yes," she stammered, trying to think of what else to say.

Willy's head snapped up, his eyes wide and frantic. "Take Charlie home, keep him away from here, keep him safe, they're horribly mean here, they do terrible things to us. Take Charlie away." He moved to grasp Mrs. Buckett's wrists, to convey the sense of urgency he felt, but Mr. Buckett intercepted him out of instinct and forced him back. Willy retreated faster than he could keep his balance, falling and pulling his legs and arms in front of him to catch the blows he knew were coming.

Mr. and Mrs. Buckett froze, still in a state of uneasy surprise.

Charlie crept forward from the elevator and took his place next to Willy, gently pulling him away from his defensive posture. "It's okay, Willy. It's okay."

"She's come to take you home, Charlie," he told him with an edge of hopefulness to his voice. "Your mother is here to take you home. Maybe you could… maybe you could visit my father, and ask him to come get me, too?"

"No, you're coming home with me and mom," he assured him. "You'll be safe with my mom and I until your dad comes to get you, okay?"

Willy looked up at him hopefully. "Really? You'll… you'll take me with?"

"Of course," Charlie told him, embracing him. "I could never leave you here. You're like my brother."

The man smiled weakly and whispered, "Thanks," before collapsing on his side, eyes sliding closed and smile fading.

The Oompa-Loompas came forward from their silent standing spots near the walls, where they had waited for this particular moment. Together, they unfolded him and lifted him, carrying him to his private quarters, as they always did when a panic attack overtook their employer and guardian.

Charlie stood up and followed them past his parents to open the door. "Mom, Dad, come on," he told them, more than a little disturbed by the entire scene.

The Oompa-Loompas took Willy to the bed and lifted him to lie on top of the blankets, then scattered in various directions to undertake the same ritual they had so many times before. The Bucketts moved into the room quietly, following their son.

"Charlie," Mr. Buckett told him, "I can't rightfully allow you to continue going around the factory alone with Mr. Wonka. Not now that I know how unstable he really is."

Charlie stared at his father in shock. "But Dad—"

"It's just not safe, Charlie. What happens when he starts hallucinating, and decides to hit _you?_ It's not something I can allow. In fact, I'm going to see about moving us all back to the end of the street."

"Dad--!" he objected.

"No, Charlie. It's not safe here. Us being here, it makes him crazy. We need to leave."

"You said he was family!" Charlie roared at his father angrily. "You said it, I said it, Mom said it, the old ones say it. He's our family, we can't leave him, not like this! It'll be ten times worse. We can't leave him."

Mr. Buckett shook his head mournfully. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I don't want to leave, either, but I can't let him hurt you or any of my family. He hit me, that's okay. But one day it will be you or your mother or one of the old ones."

"Willy would never hurt me," Charlie told him, voice shaking. "Don't you understand? The reason he flipped out was because he thought you were going to hurt me. The whole time in the elevator, all he would say was how he would always keep me safe, and that no one could ever hurt me." He stopped for a moment to take a breath, and continued when he saw that his father wasn't going to interrupt him. "Dad, he's sick. If I were sick, would you pick up and leave me wherever I was? If mom were sick?"

"That's different," Mr. Buckett started to object.

"No, it's not!" the young man insisted. "No. Willy Wonka is our _family_. He needs us. You can leave if you want, but I'm staying here."

His father frowned, and turned to his wife.

Mrs. Buckett grasped his arm and nodded. "I agree with Charlie," she told him quietly. "He does need us."

"What could we possibly do, Judy?" he asked logically. "We don't even know what's wrong with him."

"Anxiety attacks, paranoia, agoraphobia, abandonment issues," a small Oompa-loompa to his left told him.

Mr. Buckett jumped a couple inches into the air, surprised by the sudden appearance of the little man.

The Oompa-Loompa offered a hand to shake. "I am Frederick, Mr. Wonka's psychiatrist."

Unsure, Mr. Buckett shook his hand. "Hello. I'm Gregory Buckett."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Buckett." The little man turned and marched over to Charlie. "I've been fairly successful at keeping Mr. Wonka's illnesses under control, but there are things he won't tell even me. I'm hoping that his attachment to you, Young Buckett, will lead him to tell _you._"

"I'm not going to spy for you," Charlie told him curtly.

Frederick the Oompa-Loompa gave him what might have been a smile. "I don't want you to tell me what he tells you; it is sufficient that he tells you. Do you understand?"

Charlie nodded slowly.

"Good. When he wakes up, if he is coherent, ask him about the cause of this episode. If he resists, tell him your father's plan to move you out of the factory. That ought to bring about some sort of a response with which you can work. Make sure he doesn't become too upset—I worry sometimes about his physical capacity to deal with so much stress. I'm sure you are aware of how fragile he is when he is like this."

Charlie glanced over at the pale, skinny man and silently nodded.

"Just let him talk—that's what I've found works the best," Frederick told him. "Thank you for your help."

The young man and the tiny psychiatrist shared a handshake, then a bow. "Is there anything else I can do for him?"

Frederick adjusted his spectacles. "We will wait until he wakes up, then go from there."

"Thank you, Frederick."

The Oompa-Loompa bowed again. "I will get out of sight. I suggest, Mr. and Mrs. Buckett, that you do the same."

They reluctantly agreed, moving out of the room and closing the door. A few Oompa-Loompas continued around the room, retrieving extra blankets and preparing tea, getting ready for another vigil at the side of their master.

Charlie took the chair next to Willy's bed and, helpless, waited.


	4. Disgusting

Author's Note: Here is the resolution to chapter three. Spot the alliterations and win no prize!

Thank you to all of my reviewers. You've made this process extra fun.

* * *

Chapter Four—Disgusting

Charlie had a full five minutes of warning before Willy wandered back into consciousness. First, the man began to stir. A few moments later, he whispered agitatedly to himself, though no words formed. Just before he opened his eyes, he let out a pitiful sort of whimper, then wrapped his hands around the blankets tightly.

"Oh no," Willy groaned to himself, crashing back into coherency with the force of a mack truck. "Oh no, oh dear…"

"You're okay," Charlie reassured, leaning over and taking his hand gently.

"No I'm not," he lamented. "I struck your father. I can't believe I struck your father."

The young man half-grinned. "It's okay, Willy, you were confused and upset. Dad forgives you."

Willy squished his eyes shut and sighed. "Do you forgive me?"

"Yes," he told him patiently. "I forgave you right as you did it. I… thanks for being willing to look after me like that."

Willy smiled a thin but genuine smile. "Of course I'll look after you, you're like my little brother, Charlie."

Charlie grinned back, momentarily happy. "Willy, you're so awesome. Even if you did call me short."

"Huh?" he tipped his head to the side.

"You were talking in your sleep," Charlie told him. "I'm not worried about that. But I do want to know about the man you kept talking about. Is he whoever you thought dad was? Why did you get so scared when he was going to hit me?"

There was a long moment of tense silence, then Willy rolled over and faced the wall, ignoring Charlie's presence.

"Willy—"

"No," he told him curtly. "There are things you don't ask, Charlie."

"You could ask me anything if you wanted; I thought we were family."

His voice sounded much more matching to his actual age, older and authoritative. Strange. "If we are, then it's for the better that I don't tell you. What you don't know won't hurt you."

"If you talk about it, it will be like last time. Maybe you won't have any panic attacks because--"

"No, Charlie," he repeated. "I can't. If I talk about it, it will just happen again. I'll freak out all over again, and I can't do it."

_I will break you if you do,_ Fear finished, lazily draped around him now that It was momentarily satiated.

"Mr. Wonka," Charlie started, instinctually knowing the distance between him and his friend and using his friend's formal title to compensate. "Dad wants us to move out of the factory. He says he's afraid of you hurting us."

_Leaving you, _Fear whispered into his mind, tracing Its fingers along his chest and alighting on his heart like a bad omen crow. _All by yourself again. Some family. _

There was another long pause, then Willy's voice floated to him, thin and tired like the voice of an old man. "What do you think, Charlie?"

"I think you'd rather hurt yourself than us," he replied with adamantine conviction.

Willy's shoulders shook with a silent small laugh. His voice remained hoarse and painfully listless. "I'd rather kill myself than harm any of my family-- if I'm still allowed to be your family now."

"Of course!" Charlie said. "Of course you're still family. I told you that I'd take you home and keep you safe, and you're home, and you're safe. I told you that your problem is our problem. I told you we'd be here until you learned that we're your family. I told you, didn't I?"

He shrank into the pile of blankets and cringed. "Yes, you told me. I'm sorry."

The young man flopped forward on the bed until he could reach Willy's arm, then wrenched him sideways as he had done before to force him to make eye contact. "Don't be sorry. I don't ever want to hear you apologize again. I want to know what you're still afraid of."

Willy watched him uncertainly. "Promise you won't laugh," he whispered.

"Promise," Charlie answered instantly.

"How do I know you mean it? Huh?"

"I cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye, eat a horse manure pie—"

Willy stuck on a synthetic smile and attempted to switch subjects. "Ew, gross."

"Tell me," Charlie insisted. "Tell me, so it won't make you afraid anymore."

Fear nibbled on his ear suggestively. The man closed his eyes again and exhaled audibly. "I don't want to," he hissed. "I don't want to talk about—"

Charlie tightened his grip on Willy's arm and growled at him harshly, "William Wonka. Tell me. Now."

Willy's eyes opened again, glazed, and for a moment he fought with Fear as It tightened around his ribs and bit into his throat. He gasped like a man drowning, and drew away from Charlie. "O-o-okay."

Charlie sat back, hating himself for having played his mentor's mental illness like a flute.

"W-when I was little my f-f-father didn't know what to do with me, because I was so disobedient. I was such a bad kid. He s-s-sent me to an awful place where they send little kids who act up and talk back. He said it would build character, and t-teach me discipline and that they'd Charlie why did you yell at me--!"

The sudden change of direction in mid-thought caught Charlie off guard.

Willy had his arms pulled up in front of him defensively and he was cringing away, mumbling and whispering. "I thought it was safe, I thought it was safe here, why are you yelling at me…"

Charlie rested a hand on his mentor's closest forearm. "I'm sorry, Willy, but you have to do this. You have to talk, or it's going to eat you alive."

Fear was already trying just that. _Willy… Willy Wonka… what went away to leave you so weak for me…_

"No," Willy whimpered to no one in general. "I can't… Leave me alone."

"Yes you can," his apprentice encouraged. "Talk to me." _Otherwise, I won't know if you're swimming or sinking._

_Are you scared, little boy? You should be scared._

"My father sent me there," he tried again shakily, ignore Fear as it wrapped itself around him and sent chills along his flesh. "Father sent me and left me there. He didn't even write. I was there for so long. Every time we did something wrong, they hit us. They hit us, and sometimes they wouldn't stop for a long time. Sometimes the other kids, they would hit me, too. But that... No."

"Yes," Charlie insisted, becoming slightly impatient.

"Ch-charlie, I'm scared," he squeaked.

"I know," he told him. "I know, and I'm sorry. But do you want this to happen again?"

Willy buried himself in his thoughts for a moment, staring into nowhere as Fear made him see things he didn't want to see. "That man, the man who ran the place, he hit the hardest. Sometimes, if I was really bad, he would take me away from the other children and t-t… he… with his hands sometimes, and sometimes he… sometimes—"

Alarmed, Charlie stared at his mentor. He tightened his grip on Willy's hand and gazed at him in what he hoped was a comforting and encouraging manner. "Sometimes--?"

"sometimeshewentinsidemeandithurt," he finished in a rushed, ashamed whisper. He lay very, very still, not meeting Charlie's gaze—not able to meet it. "I wrote to papa but he never wrote back. When he came to get me we didn't talk about it. He knew I deserved it, he sent me to that place…"

Deeply disturbed, Charlie reached over and grasped his mentor's hand. "No one deserves anything like that, especially not you," he informed him. "Did you ever tell anyone?"

Willy shook his head.

Charlie reached over and pulled the man into an awkward but sincere embrace. "I'm so sorry. Dear God, Willy, I'm so sorry."

He took the time to drag himself out of the ocean of angst into which he'd been tossed. He slowly reached over and clung to his young friend again. "Charlie?"

"What?"

"You don't think I'm… that I'm disgusting o-or that I'm dirty…"

"No," he answered. "No, you're the most awesome person I've ever met. It wasn't your fault that was done to you."

"Thank you," he squeaked again.

_That's why you don't like to be touched, _Charlie realized. _That's why you don't like people and you don't let them in your home. That's why you're so protective of me. My God… why would anyone… to a _child_…_

Charlie felt vaguely nauseous; more than anything, he felt acutely the size of the world and its cold apathy. He felt extremely isolated, understanding that the world was disgusting and full of disgusting people. He knew firsthand for the very first time the disgusting things that disgusting people were capable of, and the effects that disgusting acts had on good people. Charlie felt that, drawn up next to his mentor, they were alone in that disgusting world. He knew his family were good people, but they stayed to themselves. Willy was a good person, but he stayed very much to himself. Charlie knew there must be other good people in the world, but finding them meant sorting through the disgusting people. The few good people seemed to huddle alone with very little defence against the disgustingness of it all. Morally, artistically, the good were isolated in an ocean of harsh and unforgiving apathy, or worse yet, in storms of malevolence.

"Charlie," Willy said quietly, breaking the young man's solemn reverie, "you're the best little brother I've ever had."

Charlie smiled wanly.

They sat together for what seemed like a very long time, huddled in the defences of a fortress-like factory: Willy Wonka's defence against the disgusting world.


End file.
